


Dissonance

by corda_cariora



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Empathy, F/M, Hair Kink, M/M, Necks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-25
Updated: 2013-04-25
Packaged: 2017-12-10 04:35:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/781840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corda_cariora/pseuds/corda_cariora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the kinkmeme: Will has trouble separating his own enjoyment of sex/kinks/triggers from the kinks/triggers/enjoyment of his partner(s).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dissonance

The copy cat killer’s motives became increasingly obvious to Will. They were personal. He took their organs for himself, but the staging of the bodies in such creative ways was done only for Will, as if to say, “I see you...” Perhaps this is why he’s been having difficulties organizing his thoughts and seeing which were his own. He’s never been a target of killer so sadistic and manipulative. This was new, unexpected, strange...exhilarating. 

The week began with Will and Jack following clues of a serial rapist. A killer of this type was not new to Will, but he was so open this time, that the emotions consumed him. He went too deep: his muscles tensed, his fists were shaking slightly, his breath became erratic. The man felt the rush of power, and so did Will. The man enjoyed it, loved it, and was addicted to it, and at the moment so did Will. 

Even as Will opened his eyes, spoke the words, and even as time passed, Will couldn’t forget the feeling of life passing through his hands. It just felt too good. He uncomfortably sat in his car, trying to make it go away. Was he really starting to develop a desire for such violence? He was sure that he never felt this way. He hid his face in the palms of his hands, trying to rub the fantasies away. No, they could not have been his. 

Since Will resumed working with FBI out in the field and started infusing the cases with his lectures more often, Alana started attending them. She sat at the side or in the back, with a straight face but a smile hidden from everyone but Will. He knew she was there and he was glad that she had such joy in life, free from burdens he experiences too often. 

Alana walked up to him after he dismissed his class. Will felt the urge to touch her hair, play with it, curl it, and pull on it. He blinked and shook his head. He felt her staring, attempting once again to look into his eyes. Will cleared his throat, and asked her if she wanted something. She smiled, reached for his face, and moved his glasses – they were awkwardly crooked on the bridge of his nose. Her hair was begging to be touched, she was too close, and she smelled so sweet. Will gave her a smile that looked more like a nervous tick. He put his hand on her wrist, stopping her. There was a sharp pain in his chest, as though his heart stopped. He blinked, several times, because this was too much. He never thought of her this way, so why would he feel such embarrassment and pain, coupled with a strange fascination with her hair, of all things? He was sure that he had no romantic feelings towards Alana. 

It was a sudden realization, a perfect answer to all his questions. It must have been her feelings. Will was even a little amused and flattered; he never cared for how his hair looked, so it was nice to know that someone appreciated it (although that word underestimates the level of “appreciation” Alana displayed). He chuckled to himself. A distressing thought occurred to him almost just as suddenly: this was not the first time he couldn’t tell whose emotions he was feeling. Something had to be done, this was too much, too real. It was only a matter of time before he would encounter another twisted psychopath and Will wanted to know exactly which feelings were his own.

And there, stereotypically lying on the couch with Dr. Lecter sitting behind and out of Will’s view, he expressed his concerns. He felt imperative to relax, this was the only opportunity he ever had to get support without judgement.

Will’s hands were folded neatly on his chest, his head comfortably placed on a pillow. Will absentmindedly studied the ceiling of this room. He closed his eyes just for a moment, following the doctor’s instructions. He heard Hannibal telling him to open his eyes but it was too late, he was in too deep again. 

There was a certain kind of tension is his throat, as if it took too much energy to remain in full control. He saw a clear vision of the doctor’s face, his structure, he neck. It felt exposed; it felt as though it was made just for his hands. Will inhaled sharply and his muscles tensed. It would be exquisite to lose control and feel that delicate neck resist beneath his fingers. His lips parted and his body was moving beyond his control. A wave of heat washed over his body and pooled in his stomach. Will opened his eyes. Coughing, he jumped on his feet, instinctively shaking his hands. 

Will glanced at Hannibal’s face, though not the eyes, he couldn’t, not now, not after a vision so clear. It couldn’t have been his own! Will was on the verge of panic, not from what he saw and not from the source, but because these visions were so clear, so intense, so real. It felt like he was taking something personal out of the depths of the minds around him. The vision faded, and guilt replaced it all too quickly.

The doctor knew what Will must have seen, he apologised, but Will had none of that. He wasn’t going to judge because he knew that very often people were not in control of their thoughts no matter how much they tried. The problem was not Hannibal, not Alana, but Will. Something happened to him that made his empathy uncontrollable. With his hands in his hair, Will paced around the room, unable to concentrate on Hannibal’s attempts to soothe him.

Heavy hands landed on his shoulders, stopping him dead in his tracks. They pulled him out of his self scrutiny. Will stared into Hannibal’s eyes for a moment, before looking away. Though it was enough to see a calming beacon in there that allowed him the hope to deal with this impasse. Hannibal’s hands were still on his shoulders and they pushed him back on the couch. The explicit display of control promised relief. Perhaps this time, Will would not fight therapy.


End file.
